


The Children Left Behind

by tjs_whatnot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9271082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjs_whatnot/pseuds/tjs_whatnot
Summary: He had been a fairy tale, a story Draco’s mother told him every night...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a JK Rowling interview explaining why she gakked Remus: _"I think one of the most devastating things about war is the children left behind. As happened in the first war when Harry's left behind, I wanted us to see another child left behind.”_
> 
> Yeah, still not ready to forgive her for that.

He had been a fairy tale, a story his mother told him every night, showing him a side of her he never saw in the light of day, surrounded by her facades and her pure-blood responsibilities. Draco knew at a very young age how to read people, how to see their hidden agendas, all the things they didn’t say, wouldn’t admit. So when he would ask for a bedtime story and she would sigh, look out the window and begin in a faraway lilt to her voice, “Once upon a time…” he knew there was something behind the fiction she weaved. He knew there was something almost like a confession, a cleansing in her words, as if asking Draco—even as a toddler—for absolution.

She would hold him tight to her and tell him about a girl; a girl who lived in a castle with her whole life planned out for her; like a garden, her whole life cultivated and pruned to be beautiful, nutritious and completely tasteless. She told him about how this girl would sit in her room a top the tallest tower of the castle and look out the window to the manicured lawns inside the castle walls, the raised bridge, the moat that kept the outside world where it belonged.

The young girl would strain to see past the dull perfection, to the chaos of forest and wilderness beyond, to the unknown and the untamed. Her heart would race as she contemplated all the life being lived there in the mysterious flora and fauna.

And while she held Draco tight there in his bedroom, her son’s eyes drooping with tiredness, she was far away as she continued her fairy tale. She told about a boy; a boy who lived in those forests, or just beyond them, in the outskirts of the village, but he was as wild as the untamed woods. He never so much as looked at the castle in the far distance, never once tried to imagine the life that was lived over the tall walls, past the many windows. He was too busy surviving.

This boy’s childhood had been marred by a terrible tragedy no child should have had to endure, an attack by a monster that destroyed this boy’s innocence and turned him into a monster himself. So, if he didn’t have the time or energy to consider her petty problems, she could hardly blame him. And after meeting him, her problems, her responsibilities to her family, to her community, didn’t seem all that important anyway.

When Draco was a bit older, she elaborated and revealed more of the story, more of her life. She would still hold him tight, holding his wrist, subconsciously rubbing along the emerald bracelet that he had worn there for as long as he could remember, a Black heirloom his mother said, a protection that he must never take off, she warned.

“Once upon a time, this princess, this darling of the family, who had watched one sister betrothed to a man she barely knew and forced to live in a loveless marriage like so many of her ancestors before her and another sister banished from the family for daring to go off and find a love on her own, find someone not picked for her since birth. And this youngest daughter, who so very much saw these two choices her sisters had made and wanted neither, and both. She wanted to be free to make her own choices, but she _never_ wanted to be cast aside, never wanted to lose all that she had known, no matter how much of a prison it sometimes seemed.

“So, she ran away, determined to see what was out there and then dutifully return to follow the family tradition of arranged marriage and pure-blood society.

“The sun was just setting when she ventured out, it was the only time she had hours to herself that weren’t devoted to her education, her training or her family obligations. She wasn’t afraid of the forest, having no firsthand knowledge of the dark and dangerous that lived there. Bad things happened to lesser people, people without privilege, without magical protections. She wasn’t hesitant, she was anxious to see what she had only imagined from her view at the top windows of the castle.

“It was still light when she stepped into the canopy of the trees, not from the sun, but from the large harvest moon, full and hanging low. There was an odd stillness to the forest, as if the wildlife had all burrowed underground, had all sought shelter. The hairs on the girl’s arm stood up and there was a tingling of excited danger under her skin.

“She could almost make out the glow of candles burning in the window of the boy’s home when she heard them. A strange bark and a howl in response, a whine from farther behind and another howl from closer—-too close. She turned around, there were eyes, glowing in the underbrush, approaching slow and low. She backed up but heard an approach from behind as well, turning again, she saw eyes there, and everywhere. She was surrounded. They were coming out of the darkness, out of the wilderness onto her path. Werewolves. Dozens of werewolves. She didn’t know what to do; there was nowhere to go, no way to escape. She closed her eyes, but the noise from the unknown darkness was even worse.

“She heard a howl from the distance that sounded different, menacing, but somehow not directed to her. It wasn’t moving slow, it wasn’t moving low, it was galloping loud and before she even make out the features of the creature, it had pounced on one of the werewolves, snarling and biting, pulling it down to the ground and tearing at its flesh with its clawed paw. They rolled away from her and she watched as the pack that had been surrounding her left to circle the dog fight moving into the distant forest.

“The girl stood for a moment, too mesmerized to flee, to escape, but soon she regained her wits and instead of risking the long way back to her house, she ran as fast as she could to the house whose candles burning in the window had beckoned her all this way. She knocked furiously on the door but no one answered. Feeling slightly like a golden haired character in a Muggle fairy tale, she opened the door to the cabin and let herself in.

“It was the boy’s house, she recognized him in a few of the pictures that moved in their frames, pictures of him as a child that he had been when they had first met, pictures of him with people she had to assume were his parents, and then a lone picture of him as a bit older and a bit sadder. But only the one.

“The pictures were in disarray, as were the furnishings. There were scratches and marks on the wood of the walls and door frames, one door hung off its hinges. She had, of course, never seen the boy in his werewolf form, but she had no doubt that he had been the wolf savior in the forest that had pulled the pack away from her. She was also sure that he would not be returning until he’d retained his human form.

“She stilled her fragile nerves enough to put on a kettle for tea and after drinking a cup of it, went about straightening and repair as much of the cabin as her wand and magical skill would allow. After that was finished, she waited. Waited to make sure it was safe to go back home, waited to make sure that he had survived the night.

“She must have fallen asleep, because she awoke to a thud against the house. Sitting up with a start, she looked around her in terror, forgetting where she was for a moment. Light shone in through the shredded and torn curtains. There was the thud again. She rose and rushed to the door, listening. She could hear heavy breathing, but only coming from one set of lungs. Whoever it was, they were alone. And it was daylight. She took a deep breath, pulled out her wand and opened the door a sliver.

“At first, she didn’t recognize him. He lay at the door, as if it took all he had left just to get home and he didn’t have the strength for those last few steps. His back was towards her, his shirt hanging on by the bloodiest of fabric strips. She recognized his hair though, matted and muddied as it was, she knew it was him. Rushing to his side, she turned him gently to assess his wounds fully. He screamed against the movement.

“The sound of his anguish reverberated through the forest, setting resting birds to scatter, animals to flee and the very wind to shift and swirl around her. Instantly, she stopped what she was doing and using her wand and all the magic she had yet learned to magically and painlessly lift him off the ground, through the door and to the small, shabby bedroom.

“She scoured the house for medicines, potions and bandages to tend to his wounds. Of course he was fully stocked. Working on his injuries, she saw layers upon layers of scars from years of nights like last night's and marveled at the life this boy led.

“He was unconscious through most of the tending she performed, and she was glad for it. She couldn’t imagine the pain he was enduring and she took comfort in the fact that he could shut his mind down to avoid it. She made sure to apply as much soothing and healing ointments as she could, so that when he did finally awake to his fate, the pain would be lessened as much as possible.

“She was singing a healing verse over him when he finally did open his eyes. After a moment of focusing, his eyes widened in terror and he attempted to sit up. ‘What are you…? Are you okay....? Did anything…?’

“She stilled his lips with her fingertip. ‘I’m fine.’

“‘You are?’

“‘Completely.’

“‘Then…’ he paused, clearing his dry, scratchy throat. ‘Why are you… what are you doing here?’

“She smoothed the damp hair from his forehead. ‘You saved my life last night; I wanted to return the favor.’

“He stared at her a moment, as if dazed and not comprehending her words. ‘You… you shouldn’t be here… I’m still… still dangerous…’

“She looked down at him; weak and seemingly unable to even move, let alone do anything even remotely _dangerous_. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

“He struggled to sit up, wincing with each millimeter of movement. ‘No. Please. I… I don’t… I don’t want you to… to see me like this…’

“She went to protest, but this time, he stopped her with his finger to her lips. ‘Please. Just go.’

“She sighed, then nodded and arose. She was at the door before she turned around. ‘Thank you.’

“‘For what?’

“‘For saving my life last night.’

“He smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’”

Narcissa usually stopped her story there, but sometimes Draco would press her to continue. “Then what happened? Did she ever run away again? Did she ever see the werewolf again? Did they remain friends?”

She would answer her questions in short sentences, the magic of storytelling completely gone and replaced with a wistful sort of melancholy that Draco didn’t understand but always made him hug her tight. “So, she never ran away again?”

“Never on a full moon, no. From time to time she did venture out, but she’d learned a valuable lesson about responsibility, about duty. More importantly though, she learned that as sad and often times lonely as her life was, it could have been much, much worse.”

When Draco got a bit older and understood more that she was talking about herself and that the man in the story who her character self pined for, was _not_ his father, he would press even further for a happy resolution to the story. “But, she learned to love the man she was forced to marry right?”

Narcissa would look down at him and smile sadly. “Yes. She did.”

“And he loved her back?”

She would look out in the distance. “He did. You have to remember; this marriage was just as much planned and prepared for him against his will as it was for her. They learned to love each other as well as they could.”

 _As well as they could_... that phrase stuck with Draco. So, he would ask the only question that mattered to him as a child. “But they both loved their child, right?”

Narcissa hugged him tight. “With all their hearts. They were so proud of him, and he made them happier than anything else in the world.”

Sometimes Draco would watch his mother and father very closely. They seemed happy… ish. He didn’t really have anything to compare them with though. They certainly looked happier than his grandparents did, or his aunt Bellatrix and Rodolphus, from the pictures of their wedding. They seemed more siblings than man and wife. Still though, with all her reassurances of the opposite, he couldn’t help looking at his mother knowing she had a past (no matter that most of what he knew was probably some sort of fiction) that she still held onto, and always seemed a bit saddened by what could have been and would never be.

But, if she had gone a different way, if she had been allowed to love another man, how would his, Draco Malfoy’s life be? Without Lucius Malfoy as his father? Not being a Malfoy at all? With a werewolf as a father? Draco shivered at the thought.

Sometimes though, when he catches his father in suspicious circumstances, when he sees that the nobility of pureblood wizard had an unsavory side that no one talked about, that everyone looked the other way about, he wondered.

“My father,” Draco started one night as Narcissa helped him prepare for bed, “He’s a good man, yes?”

She settled his blankets up under his chin and sat beside him, reaching for his hand and the bracelet he still wore at all times. His mother had always insisted and he had never questioned it. He imagined some sort of magical protection, some family curse the emerald amulet countered. She stroked the stone as she answered. “Your father is one of the best men.”

He rolled onto his side and curled into her hip. Content with the answer and his place in the world, and more importantly, his place in his parents’ world.

~oOo~

His years at Hogwarts were filled with crushing defeats and small victories. Being pureblood set him up in the right circles, like it did in the wizarding world at large, and he made friends easily… well, mostly easy. In his parents’ day, however, Hogwarts was the bastion of pureblood privilege and rule, but it wasn’t that way for Draco. Not with a Headmaster who seemed to prefer mudbloods to nobility, who hired the sketchiest sort of staff and who gave the very most special treatment to a runt who had _supposedly_ stopped the Dark Lord with his bare hands, or the smell of his baby breath, the shriek of his baby lungs. Whatever.

It was all myth and folklore, whispered rumors and lies and that little puke was going to ride it for the entire time he spent at Hogwarts, no matter how it affected anyone else. It was one thing that the entirety of the student body seemed to bow to the boy— all but his faithful Slytherins that was—  
but that the staff also held the insignificant child in such high regard as well was sickening. The only staff he felt any kinship with his hatred for the Boy Wonder was Professor Snape. Of course Filch gave Potter trouble too, but what did he matter? He was a nothing. Draco could care less what the worthless and insignificant thought of Harry Potter. 

Like that Hagrid monster who devoted himself so fully to Potter. The day that he discovered he’d be calling that oaf _Professor_ was the day that he completely gave up on any thoughts that Hogwarts was still a great institute for learning. And it was only the first day of classes that his beliefs were so completely proven correct, after being almost immediately sent to the Hospital Wing with a broken arm— okay, fractured, whatever, it hurt _a lot_. He’d even lost consciousness, and when he came-to what felt like moments later, but must have been hours, he was shocked to see his mother sitting beside his bed.

“Mother?”

“Draco, darling! How are you?”

“I’m fine. I think. Why are you here? Am I dying?”

“Of course not. But you were hurt and I was made aware of it. Your father has some business to conclude, then he will be here to meet with the Headmaster about what is to be done.”

Part of him was deeply embarrassed that she was there to baby him, but a bigger part was quite pleased that he had someone who was this devoted to him. It set him apart, made him special. Important. 

His father usually came to deal with school situations, being on the Board of Governors and deeply concerned about the school and its declining reputation, but his mother had never came, sending care package after care package instead.

Many people came in to visit while she was there, the Headmaster, who was oddly sprite and jovial. Well, it wasn’t that odd, but Draco was unsettled by it, having hardly ever seen him except in large groups— Opening Feasts and the like— and it was strange to see he was the same in a large crowd as with an audience of two. Draco wondered how this man had the history he did. How did _this man_ defeat anyone? How did he strike fear in the heart of someone like the Dark Lord? He was a joke.

Professor Snape also came by. Of course he did, he was the Head of Draco’s house and he knew that Snape had once been friends with his parents. What Draco wasn’t expecting was a visit from Professor Lupin. 

“Lupin,” Professor Snape snarled when the man entered the room.

“Severus,” Lupin responded cordially. If he’d heard the loathing in Professor Snape’s voice, he hid it well. Draco got the distinct impression that was very much the case, that Professor Lupin somehow reveled in Professor Snape’s displeasure.

So fascinated by this exchange, he didn’t notice his mother’s reaction to the exchange until he felt her hand clutch tightly to his wrist and the amulet that rested there. Thankfully, it was his uninjured arm, but it still hurt.

Professor Snape left with a flourish of his robes and mumbling something about a potion needing his attention. 

There was a weird quiet in the room after Snape left. Draco studied the odd Defense Against the Arts Teacher that he had just met earlier that week intrigued by the exchange between the two professors and determined to get to the bottom of it.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Professor Lupin finally said, and there was a weird lingering in the way he pronounced her name. He had done the same thing during their first class when he’d come to Draco. Again, there was something there.

And then his mother talked and he _knew_ there was some sort of history.

“Remus.”

They just stared at each other and if it weren’t for his mother’s hand on his wrist, her thumb rubbing along the emerald, Draco might have felt as if the room had forgotten about him.

“How is he?” Lupin asked.

“He?” Narcissa said.

“Your son, Draco.”

“My son…” Draco turned to her. He’d never seen this expression on her face. He’d never seen her… _flustered_ was the only way he could describe it. “My son is fine, aren’t you, Draco?”

“I’m fine. Just a little pain.”

“Good. Glad to hear it,” Professor Lupin said, but he was no longer looking at Draco. It appeared that he had no more to say, but he still stood there for a very long, awkward moment before mumbling something too low to hear, and then turning and walking out.

Draco was almost afraid to look at his mother. She seemed to feel likewise, because when he did finally turn to her, she had turned her back to him. He watched as she did what he’d seen her do many times before. He watched her shoulders rise and fall in as she took long breaths and when she turned back, all was right with the world again. She looked strong, powerful and in complete control. 

He wanted to say something, ask so many questions, but he was afraid to break the spell. It wasn’t worth it. He never wanted to see his mother unsure of herself again.

So, instead, he faked sleepiness and accepted her mothering attentions with a sigh. He was just about to fall asleep for real, when he felt her lightly and delicately take his hand again. He brought it to her lips and kissed it and then the piece of jewelry. He peeked one eyelid to see her look around the room and checking to make sure he was asleep. He shut his eyes quickly.

At first he didn’t understand what was happening, he felt a tingle in his arm, emanating around the heirloom, spreading along his arm, neck, face and body. And it reverberated under his skin, to his heart, his lungs. He heard a chant, a song in his mother’s whispered voice and it brought with it a childhood memory, a remembrance of this happening many times in his childhood. It was just in a dusty corner of his mind to remember more, see more, understand more, but then a fuzziness washed over him, a washing away that also felt incredibly familiar, though he could no longer hold the thought of it or anything else in his head.

When he awoke, the sun was just beginning to poke over the horizon from the eastern facing window. His mother had slumped over him, her slumbering head resting on his stomach. She must be aching, Draco thought and his heart filled with devotion. The same sort of devotion that he felt wash over her towards him. She had stayed there to protect him. But from what he didn’t know… or couldn’t remember? His head felt heavy and completely devoid of anything all at the same time.

She must have sensed his stirrings because she sat up. “Draco. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

He couldn’t think of anything he needed. Couldn’t think of anything. “What happened?”

She looked scared for a moment before the expression was schooled. “You were attacked by a Hippogriff.”

“I know that. I know that’s why my arm is in a sling and I feel pain in my chest. But, what else happened? My head feels fuzzy.”

“Perhaps a side effect of the potion you were given?”

He studied her for a moment. “Must be.” He got flashed of jumbled words, phrases, faces. “Were Dumbledore and Snape here last night?”

“Yes, your Headmaster and Head of House both came by to make sure you were alright.”

“And…” It was right at the corners, right on the tip. “Professor Lupin?”

“Who?”

“My new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I thought I remembered…” he saw her blank face. “Must have… must have been a dream,” he finished unconvincingly. Why would he have been dreaming about a man he’d only just met who had no connection with him or his family? 

He asked that question then, and he continued to ask it in the months that followed as he found himself watching the new teacher, fascinated by him for reasons he couldn’t understand. Sometimes it felt as if he knew him somehow from a different life, like he had some connection to the man that he couldn’t sort out. The professor was nothing to look at, he looked very unloved and uncared for, his clothes were in shambles, everything he owned seemed to have been owned by every other wizard in the world before him and he had an odd sadness about him that only rarely lifted when he got very involved in a lesson.

Draco especially watched him while the man watched and studied Potter. He seemed to always be watching the other boy, always on the cusp of saying something to him, reaching out to him in some way in those first weeks of school. Then they started having secret meetings, extra lessons were the rumor, but for some reason it did something to Draco, burned him with an unexplainable jealousy that no other special treatment had. The whole situation and his reaction to it baffled him. So much so that he did what he tried not to do, he wrote to his mother about it. Not the feeling—he didn’t know how to explain that—but he did seethe about Professor Lupin’s preferences and Harry Potter’s special treatments.

He was shocked a few weeks later, at the second Hogsmeade weekend when his mother made another appearance. 

“Mother, what are you doing here?” Draco asked as he walked out of the castle gates and saw her waiting there for him.

“I thought it would be nice to have some tea with my son, maybe get some Christmas shopping done, now that you’re allowed out of the castle from time to time. I do hope I’m not cramping your style.”

Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind him. “Not at all. Tea sounds lovely.”

He left with her, turning to his friends to say he’d met up with them later.

They went to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop and found a quiet table in the corner.

“So, how is school going?” Narcissa asked after their pot was delivered to them.

Draco shrugged.

“Tell me more about this new professor, Lupin was it?”

Draco looked at her. Her expression and the tone of her voice, the offhand of her question were all out of sorts with each other.

“Ah, he’s a good teacher, I guess. Seems to know a great deal about the Dark Arts, or the defense of them anyway…” he stopped and did the math. “Did you know him? Did he go to school with you?”

“With me?” she stammered. He continued to study her. Something was _off_ with her. She continued. “If I’m remembering correctly, he was there towards the end of my years. He was close friends with Sirius I think. In fact, I think it was he and James Potter that made Sirius turn away from the family.”

Draco spat out his tea. “He was friends with Potter’s father?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, that explains everything.”

“Yes. Perhaps.” She was quiet again for a long time, and again she tried unconvincingly to sound nonchalant when she asked, “So, he hasn’t spoken to you?”

“What do you mean, spoken to me? He’s my professor, so yeah, we’ve spoken.”

“But he hasn’t… well, singled you out for harsher treatment or picked on you… you know, because of who you are? Who your parents are?”

Draco tilted his head and crinkled his eyes, thoroughly confused. “Because of my parents?”

“You know, because we were on opposite sides of the war? Because of our past allegiances.”

He thought for a moment. “Not any more than anyone else… in fact…”

“What?” she asked a bit too eagerly.

“I don’t know, there was a moment… that first day, during roll call, when he called out my name, he sort of… I don’t know… lingered at my name, my last name.”

“But he didn’t say anything? Not then? Not later?”

“No.”

She looked out the window and Draco waited for her to say something more, but she didn’t seem to have anything else to say. “It’s really nothing. He’s fine. I just wrote to you in a moment of frustration about the Potter special treatment.”

She sighed. “I know it’s tough. Almost unbearable, but really, in the climate of today, it doesn’t do to antagonize _The Boy Who Lived_.” She said the last with her lips twisted into a scowl.

Draco scowled too, then bowed his head and mumbled, “I know.”

She’d told him this same thing many times. Last year she’d actually sat he _and_ his father down for this very same lecture after the little nothing freed one of their House Elves.

Maybe she was right, but he couldn’t help it, he liked to believe like his father did, that one day— and sooner rather than later— there’d be an uprising, a setting of right in the world that would put them back where they belonged in the Wizarding world.

Throughout the rest of Draco’s third year, his mother found more reasons to visit, Hogsmeade weekends, the rumors of Sirius’ attacks at Hogwarts. All the dark dealings. Draco couldn’t understand why this year was different than the year before when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. Sure, he was in more danger from Sirius Black, his own cousin who had turned from the family before going completely mad. Even his mother didn’t know where his true allegiance lied. Was he seeking revenge on his family or on Harry Potter? Perhaps both. 

Draco was glad to have so much attention being paid on him by his mother, even if each visit ended in a weird sense of forgetfulness and snatches of moments jumbled in his mind. Not memories because they made no sense, but he’d never given his imagination this much credit either. They were all centered around Professor Lupin. He was always there, lurking in the shadows of Draco’s thoughts. Draco could see snatches of moments, turning a corner and seeing the Professor’s hand on his mother’s arm, whispering something urgent in her ear. He recalled his mother’s flushed cheeks, a certain light in her eyes he’d not seen before. He could recall tears in his mother’s eyes and a something like a longing in her very being.

But then she’d be gone and all those jumbled thoughts, imaginings and memories would be gone. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Professor Lupin was somehow an important character in the story of his mother’s life.

The feeling remained so strong that when it was discovered at the last day of the term that Remus Lupin was in fact a werewolf, it all clicked in place to Draco like he’d known it his whole life. The boy at the outskirts of the forest, the girl wasting away in a castle on a hill. His mother. Remus Lupin. 

Remus Lupin who had once saved his mother’s life. Remus Lupin who had most likely been the only man his mother had ever loved with her own free will. Remus Lupin who _was not_ his father.

He shivered. Where had that thought even come from? He unconsciously clutched at the bracelet around his wrist.

~oOo~

That summer, he was determined to put all those thoughts and feelings about his mother, Remus Lupin and his father out of his mind. Many times, it was on the tip of his tongue to ask his mother all the questions that burned inside him, but he couldn’t. He didn’t even ask for the stories anymore. He was too old for fairytales and pretty fictions and lies. He needed too desperately to believe in what he’d always thought. That Remus Lupin was a fairytale; his mother spun fantastical fictional stories, and his father won his mother over eventually no matter how their marriage began.

Without consciously setting out to do it, he found himself pulling away from his mother. He was still devoted to her, but he couldn’t help thinking there was so many things she was keeping from him, so many things she’d lied about. He knew her well enough to be pretty certain that the lies— in her mind at least— were for his own good, but still, distrust set in. But, it was only one of the things that happened that summer. There were whispers about a rejoining of secret societies and pureblood gatherings. Draco was quite pleased to discover that finally his father deemed him old enough to participate in some of his clandestine meetings.

What Draco had always assumed were family reunions where he’d been delegated to the “Kiddy Table” was now revealed to him as meetings, planning sessions. There were whispers of the Dark Lord’s return, which had seemed preposterous to Draco if he hadn’t spent the last three years at Hogwarts where every year ended with a dark revelation only hinted at to most students, but Draco wasn’t most students. He had a way of gathering information, making seemingly innocent queries in unlikely places that proved increasingly beneficial. He proved himself by sharing what he’d learned about Marauders and werewolves, scapegoats and escape artists. About rats and fulfilled prophecies.

He was their Golden Child. Their salvation and future. He had found his calling.

And every time he thought about his mother, thought about Remus Lupin— and he tried so very hard not to think of them _together_ — he would throw himself further into the cause of his father, the cause of his family. He was going to restore them to their past glory. Nothing could touch him then, not even The Boy Who Lived or fictional werewolves who didn’t know their place belonged in stories and not in life.

The next year when everyone else was talking of Triwizard Tournaments and the loss of Quidditch, he did his duty and began his recruitments of students, while doing his part to undermine Potter’s place as Savior of the World. He tried not to be bitter when his mother didn’t visit that year like she had repeatedly the year before, the year of Remus Lupin. 

Draco hadn’t heard anything about his old professor, or his cousin, the escaped convict. He was pretty sure his mother hadn’t either. There was something withered and almost heartbroken about her and Draco didn’t know if it were because of Remus Lupin disappearing again, or if it were the loss of her son’s unconditional devotion. But at the end of the year, when the Dark Lord rose, when the panic subsided and his loyal followers fell in line, Draco got a glimpse of what was really upsetting his mother so much. 

He saw it the first time Voldemort came to their house. No one else picked up on it, not even Lucius, but Draco did. Draco who had spent so much of his life watching his mother, reading her every facial expression. He could see how very hard she was trying to keep her skin from crawling. How hard she tried to school her features to play the gracious host. 

It was Draco’s first time in the Dark Lord’s presence and he understood to some extent his mother’s revulsion. Like with Dumbledore, it was hard for Draco to sort the divide between myth and reality. You expect so much from the characters in your stories, the heroes, the villains, the knights in shining armor. So far, none of them have lived up to the ideal.

And though he was too old for bedtime stories anymore, too old to go to his mother with all his concerns and questions, he couldn’t help himself. She still came to his room every night to see if you needed anything, to wish him pleasant sleep. “Mother?”

“Yes, dear,” she stood at the door, her voice so eager it broke Draco’s heart a little bit, like she’d been waiting so long for him to need her for anything again.

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

She turned to shut the door when he asked. “How did the Dark Lord convince everyone to follow him?”

She turned and looked around the room, clearly frightened. He watched her take some deep breaths, composed herself. By the time she perched on his bed, she was again her usual self. But she still spoke in a hushed whisper.

“At first, charisma. He was this man who came from nowhere, had no pedigree that anyone knew about, he exuded charisma and class. He just _knew_ who we were, what we feared and the resentments that we’d had to swallow down for far too long. So we listened, and we gave,” she looked around again, “and we gave. We gave him our respect, our faith and then somehow, we gave him our lives. Now, we… we…” she faltered. “From charisma came power and power has lead to fear. Some of us, not all, follow him because there is no choice. Those who are not with him are against him. There is only black and white.”

“Are you afraid?”

She looked at him for a very long time before she answered. “I’m not. I’m cautious. Always cautious. I’m serious when I tell you in the environment we live in, it does not do well to ostracize Harry Potter. I know you hate when I lecture you on this, but I’d like very much if we, you and I, position ourselves so that no matter how this battle ends, how it all plays out, we are in a position to survive, to prosper even.”

“I’ll be a model student, Mother. But as for Potter, it’s never going to happen. I’m never going to be able to _play nice_ where he is concerned.”

She sighed and smiled. “I know, and from what I’ve heard, you might not have to this year. Dumbledore and his Golden Child might be having a bad year and as long as you stay out of it as much as possible, you should be fine.”

He smiled too. “I’ll do my best.”

And he did. His mother was right; it was a good year for him and an incredibly bad one for his least favorite person. Draco again found his calling, this time in Law and Order. As a member of the Inquisitorial Squad he was instrumental in shaping and implementing order from the chaos of the Hogwarts under Headmaster Dumbledore’s neglect and short-sidedness. He loved policing and enforcing rules, especially after he learned what no one said aloud; the only people who have no rules are those who enforce them.

Power sizzled under his skin.

The more power he was given, the more he understood why people fought so hard to get more, to hold on to the little bit they had. He understood the allure of following a man who promised the lost power back to a group of people who saw it as their birthright. He just, for the life of him, couldn’t understand how so many people were so willing to follow when they were born to lead. It made him question every person he’d ever met in his parent’s circle.

Then the first week of the new year his parent’s circle got much bigger. Ten broke out from Azkaban and his side was ecstatic to what it all means. That a prison break was even possible. That the Dark Lord’s most devout were once again amongst them. It was like a sign that the fates were on their side. Draco thought the same, until he met them, his aunt that he’d never met, her husband and his brother, all the others.

They were fuckin’ nutters. The lot of them.

He took two very important things from his first meeting of the original and complete Death Eater Brigade: He never, _ever_ wanted to wind up in Azkaban, not ever. And most importantly, he learned that there were two sorts, fanatic followers like his Aunt Bellatrix and pragmatic supporters like his mother who saw the Dark Lord and his seemingly random schemes and demands as a means to an end, nothing more. It wasn’t until he tried to sort which camp that his father belonged in that he realized that there were actually three sorts, and most of them fit in this last category, supporters trying desperately to convince Voldemort that they were fanatics. They would do anything to prove their devotion.

Like some bizarre project having to do with Sirius Black, Harry Potter and the Department of Mysteries. Some bizarre project that sent his father to Azkaban and changed Draco Malfoy’s life forever after.

The swift and corrupt trial of Lucius and the others was barely finished and his father carted off to the island prison before there was a powerful knock on the door of the Malfoy Manor. Moments later, a House Elf notified Narcissa and Draco that the Dark Lord himself was there to see them. As they stood to greet him, Narcissa clutched Draco’s arm frantically. She exuded grace and hospitality as she welcomed Voldemort to their home, but Draco could feel by the pressure on his amulet how very terrified she was.

“Again, My Lord, let me again apologize on behalf of my husband that the attempt on Harry Potter’s life failed—”

 _Yet again,_ Draco finished in his head.

But, that was the last snarky thought that entered his head for a long time, for he was suddenly deluged with an onslaught of thoughts, feelings and sensations. They all correlated with Voldemort looking him in the eye, studying him, for the first time in his life. He felt as if thoughts and small, unnecessary parts of his body were trying to float away, as if being pulled out, He also felt as if his heart and soul (if he’d believed in such things) were physically trying to recoil from the scrutiny. All the while, he felt something else too, he felt his mother’s fingers on his amulet, heard the sing-song chant he’d heard so many times before, this time only in his head, but effective just the same in steadying him, giving him power to fight the other sensations.

And while this all was happening, there was a conversation taking place too that he barely registered. But he did register the ingratiating smile on Voldemort’s distorted face and a velvety voice emanating from him. He remembered what his mother had said about charisma and believed it, but wondered if there wasn’t some sort of magical manipulation happening as well, some low-level Imperius. It was the only way he could rationalize how it was that while his whole being was telling him to run, hide get out as fast as he could— except for another unknown part of his physique that even more terrifyingly rose up to demand he reject his promotion in the ranks of Death Eaters, to instead fight— he found himself swearing allegiance to the Dark Lord. 

_Like I had a choice,_ he thought immediately after Voldemort had left, entrusting Draco with many high-profile and important tasks, and also inviting him to the next meeting.

Throughout this exchange, Narcissa remained calm and cordial. The minute the door closed behind Voldemort however, she crumbled to the floor in a display of terror and grief that Draco had never seen before. He bent down and attempted to help her to her feet, but she seemed incapable of gaining the strength to stand. He picked her up and carried her to the settee where he laid her down and kneeling beside, took her hand.

“Mother, you mustn’t worry. We will get through this. Together.”

She reached for him frantically, grasping at his left arm, clutching the amulet like she’d done so many times in his life when there was any sense of danger. This time she pleaded. “You must promise me, Draco, never, ever take this off. Promise.”

“I promise.”

“No, you must really mean it. No matter where you go, what you do, you have _got_ to keep this on your wrist. It will protect you when I can’t.”

“Mother, I don’t need your protections.”

She sat up, her strength obviously restored as she continued to hold onto him, not allowing him to free himself. “You have to trust me on this without question, please! There are dangers that you can’t know, secrets that must be kept at any cost.”

“What do you mean?”

She shook her head vigorously. “I said without question.”

“You can _not_ be serious.”

“Draco! I said no!” 

Draco recoiled, pulling free finally. He’d never been spoken to like that from anyone, especially her. He didn’t know how to react, so he just walked out of the room.

The thing was though, he’d never even considered taking off his bracelet. He’d never had and he’d pretty much forgotten it was there most of the time. But for days after, that was all he thought of as he silently watched his mother fall apart. She spent all day wringing her fingers, and all night pacing back in forth in front of the large parlor window lit up by the full moon.

Just when she seemed to have calmed down, they were visited again by someone that sent her nerves on edge. Fenrir Greyback. He was sent as _protection_. Narcissa spent her time in her private rooms while he remained in the house rather than allow him to see what his presence was doing to her, but Draco saw it and wished he could do anything to ease her anxiety. But he too had a part to play, thankfully, he played the petulant heir-apparent very well. Even with— or especially with— people who made his skin crawl. Fenrir was repulsive and the way he looked at both himself and his mother froze Draco’s blood in his veins. It was predatory and ravenous and both of them made sure they were never alone with him. They even welcomed the company of Narcissa’s crazy sister, Bellatrix.

The two sisters had many raised-voice conversations behind closed doors that Draco didn’t even need to eavesdrop to know were about him and his role in Voldemort’s upcoming plans. One night, after a particularly vicious exchange, Bellatrix left in a huff, and shortly after, Narcissa also Apparated away without so much as an “I’ll be right back.”

Draco ran to his father’s study to retrieve a magical instrument that would allow him to find her if she were to speak his name, and of course she would. Wherever she was going, she was sure it was to discuss him. She seemed to be obsessed with his safety. He got it. He shared much of that obsession, of course, and was touched, but there would be no safety until Voldemort succeeded or was defeated. He’d always hoped for the first, but now, he didn’t know which solution would be better for him and his family. 

It was only a moment after he’d retrieved the device, it emitted a small orb of light and when Draco touched it, he was transported instantly to the place his mother had gone. Thankfully, he was outside and he heard the voices coming from inside a small cabin in the woods. He didn’t even need to hear the voices to recognize where he was, who his mother was talking to. She’d described these forests, this house enough in her bedtime stories that he felt he had walked into a fable.

“...I don’t know what you think I can do, Cissa.”

“He’s in our house, breathing our air, stalking my son like he’s his next meal. Remus, you of all people know how dangerous he is, there has to be something you could do to protect… something you could do to get him out of my house…” 

“The way I hear it, your son is very important to Voldemort’s plans, I’m sure he’s not going to let one of his pets use him as a chew toy.”

Draco had crept closer and could swear he could hear the intake of breath in his mother’s gasp. He went to stand beside a window and leaned over to see Lupin with his back to his mother, as if he couldn’t look at her. Draco’s first instinct was that Lupin was afraid of a spell being cast if he were to look at her, but then his mother reached out and touched Lupin’s arm and Draco saw in Remus’ reaction that he was terrified of something much more powerful than magic. 

She whispered almost too quietly for Draco to hear. “Remus, _please_. If you ever loved me…”

Draco watched as the softening in Remus when she touched him, was replaced with a rigid and forceful anger. He swung around and grasped Narcissa’s arms. Draco took one look at the fire in Lupin’s eyes and drew out his wand.  
“How dare you! How dare you use my devotion that you tossed aside as if it were nothing, against me! You knew how ardently I loved you, how dedicated I was to you. I would have given you _anything_! You made your choice.”

Narcissa wrapped her arms tightly around Lupin’s waist and this time her whisper was so low, Draco wasn’t even sure Remus could hear it. “I had _no_ choice.”

Draco watched as Remus stood there, stunned, before he slowly and tentatively— as if in a dream he feared to wake up from— wrapped his arms around her too. She looked up to him with an expression Draco had never seen before in his mother. Remus though, obviously had, for without any hesitation this time, he bent his head and met his lips to hers.

Draco moved away from the window, putting his head against the side of the cabin and reeling. It was one thing to know about his mother and Remus in a long-ago past, but to see the acknowledgement of it and to see how much was still there all these years later was overwhelming. It hit him that in even this small exchange, he saw more love and passion from her to him than he’d ever seen between her and his own father.

“I know you can’t tell me what Draco’s tasked with for your and his safety, you took a reckless risk just coming here,” Remus said in a low voice, drawing Draco back to the window. They were still holding onto each other, though not as desperately now, more like it was the only place they belonged. “I wish I could do something, but that would be just as dangerous. He’ll be going back to school soon, yes? Go to Snape.”

“Severus? You trust him?”

Remus stroked her back. “I don’t trust Snape in a lot of things. But to protect a child, your child? Without a doubt, you can trust him.”

She didn’t respond, just continued to rest her head on his chest, her arms still wrapped around him. Remus still looked like he was sure this was a dream that he would soon wake up from. He took one last deep breath, held her tight for a moment before saying, “You should go.”

She sighed, but made no attempt to separate herself. “I had to come. I’ve wanted to so many times before but…”

“You couldn’t. Can’t. We can’t be what we were. You have a husband and a child—”

“And you’ve got my niece.”

Remus froze. “I wouldn’t say I’ve _got_ Nymphadora.”

“I hope she makes you happy. You deserve to be happy, Remus, and I don’t think you have been for a very long time.”

“It’s been a very long war.”

“I’m sorry about Sirius. I know he meant a lot to you.”

There was a hitch in his breathing before he pushed her gently away. “I can’t… it hurts too much, seeing you, holding you, pretending that the world outside doesn’t exist, that it’s just you and me and there’s no sides to choose, no dangers around every corner. If I look at you too long, if I feel you in my arms for another minute, I’ll never have the strength to go back, to fight. I’ll never be able to let you go again, the world be damned.”

She reached out as if to stop him, plead with him to do just that— Draco saw it all there in her eyes— but she stopped herself. Instead she raised the hood to her travel cloak and turned toward the door.

“Don’t worry about Greyback,” Remus called when she opened the door. “He wouldn’t risk angering his master, not now. Just make sure you and Draco… and anyone else you care about isn’t around in the days before and after the full moon, okay?”

She turned and smiled but didn’t say anything else before she walked out into the night.

Draco heard the pop of her Apparation, but stayed and watched the man she’d left behind… again. He just stood there for a long time; as if afraid he’d go after her if he could muster the strength to move. But then when he was sure she was gone, he went to a corner of the cabin, knelt down and pulled up a base board and reached in and withdrew a dusty, beat up metal box. He sat it down on a table that looked like it got repaired on a regular basis, and pulling out his wand and running it over the box, opened it.

When Remus held up what he’d removed from the box, Draco gasped. It was an emerald the exact shape and size as the one Draco wore on his wrist. This one hung from a thick golden chain. If Draco had any doubt of who’d given Remus the gem— which he didn’t— they would be dashed when the man raised the emerald to his pursed lips. “Always, my love.”

He staggered backwards away from the cabin, tripping over tree roots and shrubbery without thought. When he’d finally gotten far enough away that he could Apparate without being heard, he did so. Later, he was amazed that he hadn’t Splinched himself, or gotten busted by the Ministry stooges. But neither of those things seemed nearly as life-altering as the thoughts and realizations he had running through his mind.

How were there two “Black Family Heirlooms” and why did she give one to Remus Lupin? What was the connection between the two stones? If they were for protection, what was it protecting him from? Why didn’t he have to wear it at all times? And then finally he arrived at: What would happen if he took it off?

He ran up to his room, cast as many protective spells as he knew, and leaned against his door, took a deep breath and did something he’d never done before in his life, he defied his mother, he slipped the clasp and let the amulet fall to the ground.

It happened instantly, painlessly and yet he still staggered against it. He felt his whole body was shifting and changing. He made his way to the mirror over his dresser and shrieked. The man standing before him was not him, was _not_ Draco Malfoy. His nose was stubbed, his mouth was fuller, and his hair instead of the palest of blonds was light brown. But it was the eyes that revealed all he needed to know, no longer did he have the steely grey eyes of Lucius Malfoy, he now had the soft green eyes of Remus Lupin. 

It was all too much. His head felt like it was going to explode and he fleetingly wondered if his insides had changed as well. He went back and retrieved the bracelet, terrified that he’d need the chant of his mother’s to restore its power, but sighed when the moment its clasp fell into place, so did his world. He was _him_ again.

The next morning he was amazed that he’d actually fallen asleep and had a dreamless sleep. He’d only remembered tossing and turning reliving every conversation he’d ever had with his mother, especially the ones that had to do with what he had assumed at the time was his father. How many times did he ask if his father was a good man, and how many times did she look him in the eye— always holding his arm, touching his bracelet— and say yes, “Yes, your _father_ is the greatest of men.”

How had he never seen it? He berated himself, remembering how his mother could hardly even look at Lucius. How could he possibly of thought she’d hold him in that high of regard, even to her son? That train of thought, however soon turned to a rage that bordered on an odd admiration for his mother’s deceits and lies. How was he supposed to have seen something she worked so very hard to conceal? Why did she have to conceal it?

Well no, he didn’t wonder that, he knew the dangers they both faced, and deep down he knew these dangers weren’t all her fault and how could she put them in this position, but it was hard to hold on to anything close to charitable feelings towards her— or Remus Lupin— at the moment. And he probably would have wallowed in these self-pitying thoughts if that morning he hadn’t been woken up by a House Elf telling him that the Dark Lord had summoned him. His blood ran cold. It was really the worst day to have to stand face to face with Voldemort.

As much as he hated to admit it; he needed his mother. He needed her example for putting on a good face and playing a part, but he _really_ needed her to hold his hand and do her chanty thing. Badly. He did _not_ trust himself to keep it together if anything close to what happened last time he faced the Dark Lord recurred.

He made his way down to his visitor. His mother was waiting for him outside the door. He studied her demeanor, totally calm, totally composed and he mimicked it. Taking her hand, they walked in together. The chanting he had heard in his head the last time they’d faced Voldemort, was there again, only this time it completely halted all his other feelings. Nothing touched him, not even the fear when Voldemort began mapping out for Draco all that was to be required of him to make up for his father’s failures and how to restore the Malfoy good name. The irony of being tasked with this on the day after discovering that he wasn't, in fact, a Malfoy at all was not lost on Draco, but he hid it well. He also hid his doubt in Voldemort’s objectives when he was told that his most important mission this year was to kill Headmaster Dumbledore. Narcissa even gasped at this news, but not Draco, he was numb. 

He bit his tongue so hard he tasted the ting of blood, and instead of saying what was the most obvious of things— if Voldemort wanted him to kill someone, why the fuck wouldn’t it be Potter himself? He could do that any day, anywhere. But no, he had to kill the only wizard, rumor had it, that Voldemort himself feared, sure, no problem. He kept his mouth shut, through most of the visit, he was barely paying attention, nodding when he felt it appropriate, “Yes, My Lord”ing when it fit. What he was really doing was focusing on the chant in his head. He was going to need that in the coming year far more than he’d need what the Dark Lord obviously thought were uplifting words of wisdom.

That year, he did as he was told, attempted to do every task given to him. He had Professor Snape breathing down his neck— obviously his mother had taken her lover’s suggestion and went to Snape— and while he didn’t trust Snape with the details of his mission, he did ask Snape to teach him Occlumency. He knew Harry had learned from their professor the year before and Draco was sure he’d need it himself by the time this was over and he was free.

Even though he played the part of the dutiful protégée, Dumbledore was right when he had Draco on the Astronomy Tower; his heart just wasn’t in it. He just couldn’t get his mind off of the idea of his mother and who she was with Remus Lupin, who he could have been, the life he could have had. What would that have been like? He didn’t know that much about Lupin, but what he did know made him want more, want to know more, want to… he didn’t know, have some sort of relationship? Something. Mostly, he just wanted Lupin to know about him, know he existed.

And there was Harry Potter and the fucking Weasleys having Christmas holiday with him. He’d hated Potter for a long time for a lot of reasons, but this one was such a new sensation, such a new emotion, it consumed him, until one day, already at the end of his rope with too many responsibilities, and all his jealousies bubbled over and caused him to be incredibly reckless. Fortunately— and unfortunately— Potter was even more reckless.

Draco never recovered from that. He and Voldemort now had the same ultimate goal: destroying Harry Potter. They just had very different ideas of how that could be achieved. But, since Draco was a child, and Voldemort was the Dark Lord, Draco’s ideas meant nothing. And after he failed so spectacularly in almost all of his duties, they meant less than nothing. He learned not to have any ideas. He learned how to be a good mindless, soulless soldier, like his family before him. 

That summer it hardly even registered that Voldemort and the most unsavory of his followers had moved into the manor, or that Lucius and the rest of the incarcerated prisoners were set free now that the Dementors served a new master. His new mantra was the same as the one his mother had been muttering under her breath for years now, _Just survive, just get through this._

Then he went back to school and saw what it really meant to have his side running the government, winning the war. A part of him died. 

Another part of him thought of his mother, and how she must have been having these same feelings for years— at least since Voldemort rose from the dead and maybe even longer— and unlike him, she had made the _choice_ to align herself with this side. How many times since must she have berated herself? Not that she’d have had any easier life if she’d chosen differently, still, the things she sacrificed, and for what?

A few months into his last year at Hogwarts, Draco came across a wireless left on to a station he’d never heard before, nor had anyone else he knew, he thought as he listened. There was a commentator and two correspondents discussing the news of the day. But it was different news than he’d been hearing from his friends and the staff that still shared news with Slytherins. This was news of sightings of Harry Potter and of enclaves where the resistance was gathering strength and support. This was people paying tribute to those they’d lost so that they would not be forgotten.

His first thought as he listened was, what would his reward be for alerting the authorities to this illegal broadcast, but as he listened that thought was replaced with another thought. Two men, Royal and Romulus were discussing the student resistance group known as Dumbledore’s Army. Draco, of course, knew all about them, even knew who most of them were. No, what stopped him was the voice of Romulus. He _knew_ who that was, recognized his voice as if he’d heard it every day of his life, and was shocked when the name that came to his mind wasn’t Remus, but Father.

He nicked the wireless, just in case it was the only one that would broadcast the radio station, and the next time he found the station— using the password Phoenix— he was in his room, his drapes closed, a silencing spell cast. When he was absolutely sure that he was alone in the room, he slipped off his bracelet and slipped off the Malfoy.

Every night he tuned in he learned more, not about the news of the day— he hardly understood with all their secret names and covert language— but about his father. He learned he was braver, stronger and smart, but also suffered sometimes from a crippling self-doubt He marveled that Remus was actually really funny when he was with people he trusted, people that knew him. He was a good person, not in the dark vs light side, or even the moralistic sense— though Draco conceded that both of those things were maybe true— but in the purest sense of what made a man _good_ ; kind, thoughtful and extremely loyal. Draco wondered fleetingly when those things became important to him. Surely not when he had gathered his group of friends to him. 

Not that he really had _friends_ anymore. He found it easier to exist these days when he kept mostly to himself. Subsequently, Crabbe, Goyle and all the rest, stopped going to him for leadership. For a while, Draco missed being the one with the plans, the one with followers, but he watched these people he’d once called friends gleefully torture firsties with new regime sanctioned methods and his stomach turned. Not that he didn’t still relish the idea of certain people being tortured, fantasized about doing it himself, but to children? Innocents? 

However, no matter his changing beliefs, he played his part, always played his part, but again he heard Dumbledore’s voice in his head, “...I wonder whether your heart has been really in it.”

When he went home for Christmas break, he saw that he was not the only one who’s heart was no longer in it; his mother looked like all these people in her house, all the goings on in the confines of her family’s home was wearing on her drastically. Even Lucius, never really the same since Azkaban, seemed like a shell of his former self. His transformation so drastic that he wondered if he’d ever be able to regain any of his past stature and clout. 

They were all prisoners in their own home. And they weren’t the only ones. Draco was terrified when he’d learned that while his mother and her Death Eater escorts were at the train station picking him up, there were others taking Luna Lovegood by force to the same location.

So many nights, he toyed with the idea of slipping off his bracelet, becoming someone else and going to Luna’s rescue. It’s what his father would do, wasn’t it? In the end though, he did nothing except become ridiculously relieved when the holidays were over. 

While in school, while spending more and more time alone and feeling like he’d never belong anywhere anymore, the desire to remove his bracelet got stronger and stronger. He could just take it off and go away and be anyone he wanted to be, anywhere he wanted to be. First though, he’d have to work up the nerve to take it off when he wasn’t under protection spells in the confines of his bedding, which he’d never done. It didn’t stop him from planning it out in every detail. He’d first need to get out of Hogwarts, how? He knew there was a way, he’d heard Longbottom on Potterwatch a few times— under a codename of course, but he knew it was him— and he _knew_ they weren’t broadcasting from the castle. He toyed with the idea of following Neville, putting a trace on him, but the second time he was on the broadcast, he was joined by Romulus and that odd jealousy he’d felt about Potter’s friendship with Remus was back with a vengeance. 

Instead of following Neville, because he didn’t see how that could happen, even if he _wasn’t_ Draco Malfoy anymore, he’d still be discovered. Longbottom might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t an imbecile— not anymore anyway— he’d wait until Easter holiday. He’d ride the train to the station and then just _disappear_. Leave behind all he was, all he was supposed to become; leave behind his life, his associations, his status and his family. All of it.

Where would he go to ride out the war? He hadn’t thought that far forward. Maybe he’d live amongst the Muggles, attempt to blend in. His skin crawled. No, he wasn’t ready for that yet. He might be ready to let the Malfoy go, but he was still a pure-blood wizard raised on the axiom of not just “otherness” with Muggles, but also of superiority. He wasn’t ready to test that belief just yet. 

None of his plans mattered anyway, because the first thing he saw when he got off the train was his mother. She’d aged another decade in the months since he’d last been home. She didn’t even attempt to hide her fear, her panic as she searched the crowd for him. He couldn’t leave her. Not now, not when her whole life was uncertainty, not after she’d spent her whole life protecting him.

So, he sighed, clasped tightly the amulet he’d been about to remove, and with his head bowed low, followed his mother and her ever present “protectors” to the Apparation spot and went dutifully to the prison that he once called home.

The real shift came for him during that trip home, when this time, when asking himself what his real father would do, while standing before Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger in his house, surrounded by his raving aunt and her sleazy cohorts, including the werewolf who was responsible for Remus’ curse, instead of taking the coward’s way out, he lied. He stood there and looked Harry Potter, the man he’d hated for what seemed his whole life in the eye, and he had the chance to end it all, to get his ultimate and final revenge. Instead, after a long moment, he, grasped the bracelet on his left hand with his right and took a deep breath, looked at his mother, and lied.

There was a flicker in her eye that he wasn’t sure the meaning of, but he hardly took the time to question it because there was such an immense feeling of weight being lifted, of a calming peace restored, that he couldn’t focus on anything else. 

If he needed a sign that what he had done had been the right thing, moments later, after chaos had reigned and he’d stomached Bellatrix’s torture of Granger, something that he’d have happily enjoyed even a year ago, after he’d lost his wand to fucking Harry Potter, after he’d watched a dagger his aunt kept strapped to her thigh, fly into the chest of a House Elf he’d known his whole life, after he’d had a chandelier smash to the ground inches from him, after he’d survived all that, he’d discovered that not only had Potter and friends gotten away, but they’d taken Lovegood and the old wandmaker with them. 

Something like redemption blossomed in his chest and stayed there for a long time after.

It was there when he returned to school and was fueled by the voice of his father on the radio as more and more broadcasts made their way over the wireless. He pieced together through vague mentions that Remus and Nymphadora had had a baby. While he was jealous of Harry and Neville’s friendship, mentorship and inclusions in his father’s life that he’d never had, he didn’t feel the same about this child. He was rather shocked by his lack of animosity seeing as how this kid was going to get the life that should have been his, but he just couldn’t muster that emotion. Instead, it was another reason to wish for a speedy conclusion to this seemingly never-ending war. 

It was there when he stood in the Room of Requirement, again looking in the eye of the man he once wished suffering upon daily and instead of wielding any power he had left with his friends to destroy him, he fought to protect him as well as he could without divulging his changing allegiances. And sure, _technically_ Potter and Weasley saved _his_ life a time or two, Draco also saved theirs whether they were aware of it or not.

And in the end, it was there as he rounded a corner and saw as Antonin Dolohov drew his wand at Remus and sent him careening down a flight of stairs. He watched as his father, that he’d hardly ever shared a single sentence with lay in a motionless lump. Without even a thought, he pointed his wand at Dolohov and slammed him against the wall and watched him bounce off it. He didn’t stick around to see if he’d actually killed the man or just damaged him. Sprinting down to Remus he bent down, looking around for anyone who could help, anyone who could _fix_ him. He was even afraid to turn him around, but he did, he had to see him, had to have Remus _look_ at him if he could.

“Draco,” Remus stuttered, blood caking the corners of his mouth. “Please, listen… take a message… a message to your mother…”

“My mother?”

Remus winced. “No time to… to explain—”

“No need to explain,” Draco said, and then with a deep breath, he slipped his amulet off and let it fall to the floor. He could track his transformation on his father’s face. Confusion, shock and then a stunned understanding.

“I don’t… how? Why?” Remus gasped, but he didn’t seem to be looking for the answers, more like working it out in his own mind. “All this time? A son?”

He weakly reached up and wrapped his fingers around the back of Draco’s neck and pulled him down closer. “Look at me.”

Remus studied Draco’s face for a long moment before he settled at his eyes. “You have my eyes,” he whispered, amazed.

He pulled Draco even closer, their foreheads touching. Remus sobbed. “Two sons that I never got… that I will never…”

There was a prickle in the back of Draco’s eye that he was unfamiliar with, he closed them and took a deep breath, holding on to the moment. There were so many things he wanted to say, to know, so many things he wanted to tell him.

“I know I have no right to…”

Draco rubbed his head against Remus’, “Anything.”

“Ask your mother to tell you about me, the me she knew, then please… please tell Teddy… tell my son these stories. I want him… want him to know me from then… the best version of me… please…”

The prickle in Draco’s eyes stopped and dripped down his face in big salty tears. “My whole life, from the moment I understood language, you were a fairy tale my mother told me every night. I promise, Teddy will hear these stories.”

Remus wheezed a wet-chested sob. “I’m so sorry!”

“No, no, no,” Draco chanted because she didn’t know what to say, he just did _not_ want the last words from his father’s lips to be ‘I’m sorry.’

“Draco, Draco, Draco.” His eyes scanned around him as if he was struggling to see him. His hand, still wrapped around Draco’s neck, moved to his cheek. “Tell your mother… tell her… I understand… I understand everything now…”

Draco nodded. He did too. He understood that her whole life, every decision she’d made, every choice had been to protect him, to give him the life she thought he deserved.

Draco watched through the blur of his tears as Remus breathed his last. He was just reaching to slide his eyelids down when he heard a sob. He looked up and watched as his mother slowly made her way to them, stumbling over debris. Her hand covered her mouth, and tears flowed down her cheeks. Draco hadn’t even noticed that there were people all around, fighting, weeping over their dead. He was just one of the number, no one who needed any notice. She was almost to them when she stopped with another sob. Draco looked to where she had stopped; Nymphadora lay a few meters away from her husband.

Draco’s first thought was of Teddy. He had an almost urgent need to go to him and protect him. Then he thought of how he had taken Remus’ last moments away from his wife. He didn’t regret a single moment he had with him, they were the only ones he ever got and he was due. Still…

He stood up and cast a levitation spell that raised Remus gently off the ground and with a point from Draco’s wand, sent him slowly to lie beside his wife’s side.

Now he was standing beside his mother, who was studying him. “Draco?” she asked as if she still couldn’t believe what her eyes were telling her.

Draco turned to her and without a word, wrapped his arms around her and just wept. “I… I barely… barely knew him…”

She held him tight. “I’m so sorry, so sorry,” she chanted into his hair.

“You could have told me. I would have understood. I would have kept your secret. It could have been our secret.”

“I couldn’t… couldn’t do that to you…”

He didn’t want to argue. It wasn’t worth it.

He pulled away and took he hand and began to walk with her out of the castle. She held firm. “Draco, where is your bracelet?”

“No mother, I’m done with that. This is who I am, who I’m always going to be from now on. You can either come with me like this, start a new life in the open, being who we are, loving who we love, or you can stay here and maybe be safe, maybe be protected but maybe never be free, be at peace.”

“But, where will we go?”

“I don’t know where we’ll wind up, but I know the first place we have to go.” She studied him so he explained, “I have a brother who’s going to need me. You have sister who’s lost a child who’s going to need you.”

She looked around the castle for a long minute. He did likewise. It no longer mattered who won and who lost. He’d already lost and he’d already won and now he was just determined to live. 

To just live.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by the lovely, Capitu. 
> 
> All lingering mistakes are all mine. You can't have them!


End file.
